The Fearless
by Unbelievable.Mishap
Summary: His generation fell to bribery in exchange for a century-long war. He decided it's time to fix this.
1. The Decision

**A/N: I love Team Fortress 2, like you wouldn't imagine. I've been so fixated on this game and my Steam account for the entire summer, looking up on its Wikipedia site on anything and everything about TF2. This is based on Valve's Loose Cannon comic. Plus, this is a bit of a test run; I've never done chapter fanfictions because I'm in fear of not finishing them, but I'll try to give this one a shot; this is kind of a test run to see if I do actually dedicate myself to it, haha. Hope you guys like. No slash in this btw.**

**All names and companies mentioned © TF2 & Valve Corp.**

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**Just because we fight for something, doesn't mean that it's important.**

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**Chapter I.**

**The room was quiet, to say the least.**

_Within the ranch lay still the dead body of Zepheniah Mann in his mahogany casket, encircled by his trustworthy maidservant Elizabeth with the famed Barnabas Hale, and plagued by the presence of his two useless sons. Indulging in the announcement of Mr. Mann's last will, his belongings were parceled out evenly and fairly to those who occupied the room based on importance. Mentioned last in the man's testament was the bitter words for his sons Redmond and Blutarch, to whom which did nothing but argue over bits and pieces of the prestigious Mann Company. What was left behind by their old man was a curse of partnership, a sealed deal of having to learn to __**share **__the company._

_"The Passing of 1850" was the populace's widespread talk of the horribly sick-induced death of the founder of Mann Company, the crafters of fine, lethal weaponry with strong continuity to be manufactured to present day. Under the jurisdiction of TF Industries it still prospers from occasional custom orders for governmental purposes, however the products' usage is most often for internal, personal disputes within the company itself. In short, Mann Co.'s business was forever fated to slowly deteriorate from the inside out, from the founder's own offspring._

_" 'What land I have purchased in this new world is to be split evenly between you both…' ," read his attorney. The twins look at each other skeptically, overlooking the permanent scowl held on their father's dried, lifeless lips._

_" '…You have wasted your lives bickering over __**nothing.**__' "_

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Delmond Conagher awoke from his slumber, greeted by the all-too familiar odor of oil and rusting metal of his own private workshop. Hands fumbled around his mattress, brushing off crumpled, obsolete blueprints and records as he propped himself upright. He heard the faint sounds of the morning sirens—he thanked God for being on the lowest level of BLU's base to sleep—and donned his hard hat, blue uniform and overalls. He left his goggles to remain on his work desk; those were saved for later, for when his name held no importance on the battlefield.

Dell considered himself lucky for being deployed most of the time in Teu Fort; he enjoyed relaxing in the air conditioned portion of the base, with his sentries and the Intelligence. Though, it soon became dull and tedious to babysit everything and almost felt like solitary confinement alone in that office. Then again, he felt as if he was summoned there by his own wary subconscious. He knew he had_ significance _in this place.

It was people like him who mattered most to the company. People who could create successful products and projects with precise planning and an inkling of what they're doing. That's why their rivals hired those shape shifters from well-trained espionage companies—for surveillance, and to take his ideas and destroy them in the making. Then again, that's why his team did the same. He was unaware of what his RED counterpart thought of, of how his thought process and imagination worked, and that's why BLU Spies were employed—to find out.

Dell knew precisely how TF Industries worked, because he's the only one who has met the head of the Builders League United and several higher-ups; he even had a brief glance at that old woman who spouts nonsense over the telecom of their base at one point, which was a rare occurrence indeed. None of his teammates understood who, or especially what they were truly fighting for: _nonsense. _

The majority of his team had almost no point of being here, other than playing around with guns, explosives, and knives because it's not legal to do it anywhere else. It's a big boy camp, where you can bleed and die as much as you want for fun, and do the same unto the other team. That's the tagline they used in their flyers, and in the end they got what they wanted: trigger-happy men from almost every continent. The mechanical man thought it was crossing the line when younglings like the Scout were allowed onboard. The money was of nothing to argue over; people were paid to wallow in their sadism.

Capture Points and briefcases become taken and re-taken because the head of the RED and BLU companies were fueled by stubbornness. Blutarch and Redmond Mann persist on fighting, and that's why this war exists. Because _they _still exist. Because Grandfather Conagher built those damn life-extenders for the both of them for a single bribe of pounds of a golden, valuable substance, and these blind, fighting men and that Scout kid are forever stuck fighting in this _hell hole_—

"Engineer! Set up your machinery in ze Intelligence Room; they've begun moving."

Yes, that's right. They've never called him by name on the battlefield.

Delmond Conagher strapped the goggles around his eyes and fastened them in a comfortable, snug fix. He took ahold of his wrench, his guns, wires, and boxes of pre-built sentries, lugging his supplies along and followed the Spy out the door.

This was the daily, mundane routine of Mann Co. Truth be told, he was tired. The Engineer was tired. Wasting his eleven science PhD's and marvelous potential all on some children's century-long tantrums on not getting what they've asked for. If Redmond and Blutarch were not going to die out alone all due to the aid and idiocy of his own generation, then he was going to take matters into his own hands.

He'd have to kill them himself.


	2. The Reason

**Sorry that I haven't updated in awhile! I'm busy in school, and I was suffering massive writer's block. I'm getting my own Steam Account soon (I've been borrowing an account from a friend) so I'll be able to think clearly soon without endlessly playing for hours, haha. Hope you like the second chapter. It's a bit rushed, but nonetheless, enjoy. The scout will be a bit emo, but depend on our good Delmond Conagher to fix it!**

"**(Pyro will talk like this)."**

**All names and companies mentioned © TF2 & Valve Corp**

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"**Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.****"**

—**Martin Luther King Jr.**

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**Chapter II.**

Under the Administrator's orders, friendly, engaging conversations with colleagues was strictly forbidden. Delmond suspected her of being insecure of a collaborated rebellion against her, with both teams attacking at full force. That was all they needed to eliminate her, the company, and the fighting anyways, so of course she severed off the potential friendship among these soldiers. The first and foremost thing she would never tolerate in distributing was the one necessity of creating emotional bonds—their names.

Giving everyone your real life name was like spreading the plague, according to her regulations. That alone was a large offense to her; if you knew someone's name, they lost their anonymity, and gained small sentimental importance to the person. Dell knew that it'd be hard to converse with his teammates this way, so he was forced to make up fitting names for each class.

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The sirens rang out into the night at Teu Fort, signaling their reprieve for the rest of the day. BLU gathered at the mess hall for their dinner, shuffling around the table to grab a portion. Dell propped down, placing his helmet on his lap and goggles around his neck. He placed himself next to the pyromaniac; he always did, because he and that mysterious rubber man always seemed to click.

"So, Mumbles," Dell began after slurping down a spoonful of chowder. "How were the causalities this time?" After surviving so long on the battlefield, he became accustomed to 'pyro talk' from the replacements that were sent in every so often and talked in the same manner.

"_(Well, the new scout is slow on the uptake—he almost got his head blown off because he got lost in the RED base. But other than that, we steamrolled 'em)_," Mumbles explained, sneaking in food under his mask when he was finished speaking.

Mumbles was right about the new String Bean, it seemed; Dell took a look at him cooped up at the corner of the table, jabbing pieces of chicken on his plate with a plastic fork. His face was sunken and exhausted, with scorches and blood stains on various parts of his skin and clothing. Actually, he appeared as if he was about to faint onto his plate of food. The new scout looked around twenty, or twenty-one years of age, but that's what they say they look for in those Scout Job Advertisements.

"Shame, isn't it?" inquired the Frenchman, sitting across from Delmond. "Having youths involved in such a thing."

"Eavestroppin' on people's conversations again?" retorted the Conagher. He agreed with him though; having someone so young and active wasting their prime years in a war that continued on forever.

"…Well, I decided to do somethin' 'bout this here war."

French and Mumbles exchanged curious looks.

"I'm gonna go see them Mann's and teach 'em a lesson myself."

"_(…The stench of oil must be getting to you, Tex)_," replied Mumbles, after a few moments of comprehending what the engineer's plan of action.

"Well, laborer, how do you suppose on seeing them?" asked French. "You are as insignificant to them as a fly, since you can always be replaced. How will you go about getting their attention?"

French was correct on that point; he hadn't formulated any way to get the Mann's attention to schedule a conference.

However, the last time Blutarch Mann called on Dell was simply for maintenance on that life-extender contraption his grandfather constructed so many years ago. Blutarch was desperate for the machine to be fixed—for the sake of defeated Redmond in the battle for the company and the land.

That meant the Mann's were intrigued in something that would completely obliterate the other brother and their team.

"That'll be simple. I'll just make something that'll appeal to the Mann's tastes, such as…" Dell thought aloud, "… a missile."

"What?" the two asked simultaneously.

"I'll make a giant, lethal projectile that they'll fall'n love with. It'll be fake when I make it of course, but if I say it'll be powerful enough to take out the other team, they'll call me over to negotiate, and that's when I'll take up the chance on dealin' with 'em my way."

"And if they still seem to lack interest?"

"Then I'll go to 'em myself, somehow," Dell confidently said.

French scoffed at such an irrational and impulsive backup strategy. However he held no objections to the engineer bringing about his plans. "So," the espionage started, going onto his final point, "what will be your method of dealing with them?"

The engineer glanced at String Bean from the corner of his eye, watching as he tiredly dragged his feet back to his dorm below the base. When he left the room, with several of his comrades following suit, Delmond let loose a dark, malicious grin.

"Clean, untraceable murder."

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When he retired back to his own room, the Conagher sent off a proposal to both Redmond and Blutarch about using such weaponry. Concerning the matter of conversing with Redmond and not appearing a betrayer, he took on the identity of an anonymous engineer that served as an upcoming RED replacement. The first thing he needed was their approval and a proper facility to build such large projectiles, and he wasn't looking forward to being ported to those spacious Payload areas anytime soon. He liked Teu Fort, for the sake of not having to move his gear up every five seconds.

Delmond began the raw mapping for his final blueprint, carving down needed material onto his wooden desk and roughly sketching out the appearance of the missile. From the looks of it, he would probably have to write another letter and request some sort of convoy for transportation. If they didn't want to give him that, he'd probably have to build that too. He sighed.

The time was about 1:00 AM, a few hours past the set curfew in the base, but Dell knew not one of his teammates followed such a silly rule; if they were able to kill anyone the next day, then his sleeping habits never mattered. That was why the curfew was one of the very few things never enforced.

Dell stood from his stool, stretched his arms, and left his room with his sketches for a bit to get some fresh air outside the base while working. It was safe to roam about at night, since both teams were far too drained to do any sort of ambush.

He propped himself on the edge of the sniper's ledge, glancing through the papers and marking out whatever he had second thoughts about. From his peripheral vision, he caught a blue, silent figure to the left of him, just standing there. Dell was waiting for the man to say something, but after several minutes of silence, he turned his head himself to see who it was.

It was String Bean.

"Bit late to be roamin' 'round here, don't ya' think, son?" Delmond asked, stuffing his papers into the pockets of his overalls to study later.

The young boy's eyes were fixated on the rough ground below him. "That goes for you too, Hard Hat," he said softly, not turning his gaze.

Dell continued to study him from the other side of the ledge until he stood up himself, and approached him. String Bean flinched at every step he took, hearing the footstep echo louder on the concrete floor; he shrank away a few feet, clutching his pistol that was still equipped with him, even at such a late hour. The Conagher took note of his troubled expression, stopped approaching, and leaned against the door frame of the sniper's opening to the enclosed balcony.

"So, why'd you take the job?" Dell questioned.

Silence engulfed the two again until it became uncomfortable. "…For my ma," he replied, scrunching his face when answering.

"She not doin' so well in money?"

String Bean took offense to the idea of his mother not being able to handle seven boys and her financially, almost appearing to seethe at the mouth, but he contained himself. "_No, _my ma's _scrawny boyfriend's_ in RED base... I gotta go teach 'im a lesson."

"Why does it matter if they're seein' each other?"

"I've _seen _'em doing _it,_" he snarled."That no-good backstabber's only in it for the sex. " He explained all of it in such a harsh, disgusted, apathetic tone. He had the eyes of a killer now; Delmond knew that look anywhere.

"You can't judge that by—"

"I can."

"Selfishly meddlin' in adult affairs, I see. Listen son, you have no right to—"

String Bean leapt from where he was standing and pounced on Dell. He was angry now, that exhausted look on his face completely dissipating under the amount of rage he worked up in such short of a time. He wouldn't be surprised if String Bean's mother merely sent him off for the sake that he had anger problems. His assailant pointed a pistol point blank in the face, ready to shoot. But his whole body was trembling.

"_Don't you EVER say what I can and cannot do, Hard Hat._" He said Dell's label with great disdain in his voice.

Delmond sighed; this was certainly an interesting case of friendly fire, over a talk about someone's relationship. It was childish, just like the Mann brothers' motives. Through that imagery he had no desire but to punch String Bean.

So he did.

String Bean was thrown violently off of him and had his body slammed into the hard floor of the ledge. There was an audible 'crack' coming from his left shoulder, but both of them failed to care about injuries. Dell wriggled away the pistol in his grasp and threw it out of String Bean's reach, and slammed his foot onto the boy's chest. "Listen here, boy. You ain't gonna last very long here if this is how you behave. You hate it here, don't ya? I can tell just by lookin' at yer sorry ass."

String Bean tried to wrestle his foot off of his chest, but to no avail. "I… I have a right to be here… a good reason to be here—," He continued to fight it, cracks in his voice, "I-I have a perfect right!"

The older man grimaced, and glared at the helpless boy beneath him. What was the Administrator thinking, he mulled, bringing in younglings like these into a violent battle. They were the most vulnerable to deterioration, injury, and mental corruption under her rules. It was reasons like these that he had to stop this war. His facial expressions lightened slightly into an exasperated, yet pitiful gaze.

"_You have no right or reason to be here, boy_."

String Bean growled, clawing at his leg until Dell got off him himself. But the new recruit didn't stand.

"…Name's Dell, if ya wanna talk," he whispered lowly, then proceeded to head to his room while String Bean blinked bitter tears away from his eyes.


End file.
